Hanging by a Thread
by KatieThomas'95
Summary: Our lives are driven by our choices. Some give us rewards we enjoy for years, others leave us with regrets that haunt us for eternity. Some change the course of our lives forever. Others are tiny, so unimportant that we forget we even made them. But not all of those tiny choices are meaningless. Sometimes saying 'No' instead of 'Yes' can mean the difference between life and death.
1. Chapter 1

A/N written for foxyfeline

WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH

why hello and welcome. This fic is for all the JJ/Morgan shippers out there (yes, we do exist) but also for readers who love a bit of tragedy. I lie, i mean lots of tragedy. I fully intend to rip your hearts out, trample them for a while, then feed them to Daenerys Targaryen- if you don't understand that reference then shame on you- leaving you drowning in a puddle of your own tears. You have been warned.

On that note, enjoy

written from JJ POV for now

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><p>You can't help but smile as he strokes his fingers up and down your back, making you shiver in a way that only he can. His touch sends a warm tingle across your skin and you sigh contentedly. You rub the sleep out of your eyes and roll over, feigning irritation at being woken up early. You glance at the clock. 8am. Yes, 8am is early on your first Saturday off in three weeks.<p>

"Derek Morgan. You should know better than to disturb my sleep. Or have you forgotten what happened last time?" You say, your face deadpan. Last time, you'd grabbed the memory foam pillow and smacked him in the face with it. It had been a playful gesture, but it turned out that memory foam moving at a high velocity might as well be a slab of granite.

He chuckles, before stroking his hands up across your stomach to pull you closer, his palms lingering just half a second longer than normal. Maybe you imagined it but you wonder if he knows, you haven't said anything but that's the thing about profilers; you don't need to say anything, to say everything.

Your smile widens, you can't help yourself; you're pregnant, and whilst you're a scared, there's a warm glow inside you that you can't ignore. You let him pull you closer so that your body is flush against his. You want to tell him now, but you're still getting to grips with it in your own mind; you'll tell him tonight- he's taking you out to dinner, to the new Italian restaurant on 17th street.

His hand finds yours, his fingertips brushing over the ring around your third finger. You've only been engaged for two weeks, you haven't even set a date yet, you just know that it feels right and that both of you are happy.

Suddenly he flips you over, so that you're lying back and he's leaning over you. You laugh lightly as he lowers himself down and places a light kiss on your lips. You return the kiss, but it's a little awkward because you're both grinning. He runs his hands over your hips and you tremble beneath his touch.

"You know, we have got the entire day to ourselves. I could… make it up to you." He says with a sly smile, leaning down and grazing his teeth along your collar bone, his hands roaming over your body. You arch your back in pleasure and moan quietly as his fingers skim just below your breast.

You're not usually a morning sex sort of person, but he has a way of setting you alight with arousal. You're just about to acquiesce to his suggestion when you're phone begins to vibrate; rudely informing you that someone wants to contact you. And just like that, the moment is shattered.

He slumps in defeat as you groan and twist out from beneath him to pick up. The caller ID says 'Hotchner'. Morgan sees your face fall and buries his face in a pillow, because you both know what it means. As you hit the answer button, you bid your weekend goodbye.

"Agent Jareau" You answer professionally, not allowing your disappointment to show in your voice. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Morgan reaching for his own cell, probably to cancel tonight's dinner reservations.

"Hi JJ, I know we were meant to have the weekend off but a case has come through. It's a bad one and the clock is already ticking. I need you in as soon as possible."

You wipe a hand across your face. "Of course, Hotch. Give me an hour and I'll be there. I'll phone the others now." You glance across at Morgan and nod. That's all the confirmation he needs. Without a word he drags both of your go-bags from beneath the bed, then takes some clothes from the closet and heads for the shower.

Finishing on the phone with Hotch, you work your way through your speed dial calling the rest of the team. By the time you've completed the rounds, Morgan is finished in the shower and, like the well oil machine that the pair of you have become in the morning, you hop in after him.

You're feeling a little sick but it's nothing unusual, you know it's morning sickness; you've felt like this for the last few of mornings. You've thrown up a couple of times but brushed it off as a stomach bug when Morgan asked. When you and Em were sharing a room on the last case, she knew almost immediately. She was so happy for you, and for Morgan of course.

Once you're showered, dressed and have made yourself presentable, you walk through to the kitchen, where Derek is sat at the table with a cup of coffee and the reheated leftovers of last night's Chinese takeout. He has left the milk and a bowl of dry cereal out on the counter next to another cup of coffee. He knows that you hate soggy cereal.

You don't really feel like eating but your force a few mouthfuls of cereal down. Or at least you start to, but then a waft of Morgan's Chinese leftovers hits you full on. Your nausea flares up and you gag, bringing your hands up to cover your mouth. Without a second's hesitation you dash to the bathroom, your stomach rejecting its meagre contents.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and hit the flush of the toilet. You go to the basin and swill a few mouthfuls of water to wash away the taste. There is a gentle knock on the bathroom door.

"JJ, honey, you okay in there?"

You turn the tap off and glance in the mirror. You look a little pale but otherwise okay.

"Yeah, Derek, I'm fine" You reply, opening the door. On the other side is Morgan, his face a picture of concern.

"Are you sure? I mean, you've been sick for days now, don't you think you should get yourself checked out by a doctor or something?" He asks worriedly. You kind of like seeing this more vulnerable side to him, it's so different to the butt-kicking, badass federal agent you work with all day. Not that you don't like the agent side to him of course.

You bite your lip, butterflies in your stomach. You can't help but feel nervous; you're not even married yet and now you're throwing a baby into a mix. Your baby, his baby. The thought alone is enough to make you smile. You were going to tell him tonight, but that's not going to happen anymore; now's as good as ever.

"Derek… I'm not sick. I'm… pregnant." You say. You're frozen waiting for his reaction. You see confusion, then shock, then fear. Your heart is racing wildly and those butterflies are back with a vengeance.

Then a smile breaks across his face. No, not a smile, a downright massive grin that lights up his eyes. When he pulls you into a tight hug he is positively beaming. "Seriously?" He asks, "Because I swear to God if you're messing with me…" He holds you at arm's length and looks you in the eye. But the grin on your face can't lie.

He just grins back at you and lifts you into the air, spinning you both around. "I can't believe it! We're having a baby."

You whoop in delight and Derek freezes. He puts you down, mistaking your exclamation of delight for an outburst of worry or pain. "Sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. Are you okay?" He asks, panic raising his voice by at least an octave. You laugh lightly and wrap your arms around him.

"Of course I'm okay." The warmth in your abdomen is back and only growing as his lips find yours. His tongue begs entrance to your mouth and, when his hand snakes under your shirt to stroke your stomach, you grant it.

The kiss is sweet and intense but it can't last long. This breath-taking detour is going to make both of you late.

He groans a little as you pull away. "Come on, we're going to be late." You say, but neither of you move. His hand is still resting on your stomach.

"I love you so much." He says softly.

You smile. "I love you too" You reply placing your hand over his. You're going to be parents. How is it possible to be this terrified, yet at the same time, this happy and this excited? You have no idea. You throw your arms around his neck and place a chaste kiss on his lips. "But we really have to go."

Half an hour later you are both sat in the round table room with the rest of the team, discussing the upcoming case. It is a local case, Metro PD have asked for the BAU's help because in the last month, three women have been abducted. MPD has run down all available leads and come up with nothing. The first two victims, Kyra Wilkins and Dana Clovette, were killed and their bodies dumped exactly a week after they were taken. The third woman, Tania Moore, was taken last night.

Both Miss Wilkins and Miss Clovette died from a fatal dose of potassium chloride administered directly to the jugular vein. They had ligature marks on their ankles and wrists but otherwise showed no signs of physical abuse. There was no evidence of sexual assault. Both had been fed and given sufficient water to keep them hydrated. There is no obvious motive to the crime.

Victimology is all over the place. Kyra Wilkins was 34 years old and was engaged in a long term relationship with her partner, Stephanie Williams. She had brown hair and green eyes, she was 5'4". Dana Clovette was 29 and single. She was 5'10" with blonde hair and blue eyes. Both were Caucasian. The latest victim, Tania Moore, was African-American and lived with her husband of 10 years, Carlton Moore. She was 5'8".

You go over the case quickly; you can learn more at the precinct and have a better centre of operations to keep track of what you know. You finish up and head out the door to the SUVs. Hotch and Garcia will head to the precinct where Detective Warren is waiting for them. You and Morgan will go to interview Carlton Moore. Reid, Prentiss and Rossi will head to the dumpsites.

As you're leaving, Emily grabs your arm and hangs back a little, waiting until you are out of earshot of the others before speaking. "So you've told him then?" She says it with a knowing smile so really it's more of a question than a statement. You know exactly what she's talking about.

"This morning." You reply, that involuntary smile lighting up your face again, "Wait, how do you know?" You ask.

Em grins back at you, a cheeky glint in her eye. "Because he looks like he could leap over the moon and shit a brick simultaneously."

You can't help but laugh at that, and she laughs with you. Because she has Morgan totally pegged.

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><p>AN well i hope you enjoyed, the first chapter, and yes, I realise it hasn't really lived up to its tragedy genre yet. Trust me, it will. Updates will be somewhat sporadic, so no promises on timescale, though I estimate it will be about 10 chapters long. For anyone who read/is reading my other fic, to live is to choose, I'm still working on that, don't worry, i just have a few details to iron out on that before i start posting the sequel :) Please leave a review, never written a JJ/Morgan fic before...

Oh yeah, and this is written in a world where the FBI fraternisation rules don't exist.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N back again, good to know there's interest in this story. Would have had this up earlier but Christmas got in the way. Thank you to everyone who has favourited/followed this story (Belle869, Cribellate, DVdE91, GottaLoveCM, IniTiniNini, MissyAsh89, MrRizzoli, foxyfeline, ifreakinglovefanfiction, iluvhotchme, kazzyshah, and only tennis) and thanks especially to those of you who review the first chapter- GottaLoveCM, MrRizzoli, TwilightxxShipJassica, foxyfeline, IniTiniNini, TwilightEdessica, Jareau37, kazzyshah, Cheetos78 and Belle 869, your input means the world to me :D

anyways, bit of a setup chapter for you so on with the story

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><p>"Are you sure you should be working in the field?" Morgan asks you uncertainly, taking his eyes off the road for just a second to glance over at you. You groan inwardly. You had known that this would come up eventually, you just hadn't expected it to come up so soon, or in a situation that wasn't exactly 'in the field'. You were only going to interview Mr Moore, the husband of the most recent victim. It's not like you were about to go busting down doors or getting into a fire-fight with maniacal unsub.<p>

Family interviews are what you do, they're your thing. And you'll be damned if you have to give that up before you absolutely have to. You can't imagine anything worse than being trapped in the police station for the duration of the case.

"Derek, it's just an interview. It will be fine." You reply with slightly gritted teeth. You don't know why, but his question has irritated you far more than it should. It's probably pregnancy hormones or something. "Trust me when I tell you that it will be better for all involved if I continue to do my job, or at least this part of it, as normal."

Derek just nods, not wanting to push the issue any further for now.

You wonder when your cravings will kick in, and what they'll be. Of course, right now, the thought of any food whatsoever makes your stomach turn; you've been feeling nauseous all morning. You remember your mother saying that she would get sudden cravings for strawberry ice cream with capers in the middle of the night. You hope she was joking.

Before long you pull up outside the Moore residence. Morgan stands just behind you as you knock on the door, mentally preparing yourself for what will follow. After a brief wait, the door opens. Mr Moore is tall African American man in his late forties, who matches Derek in height. He might, at an earlier stage in his life, have matched his physique as well but age has caught up with him. Whilst you think he is still strong, he carries the excess weight that so often accompanies middle age.

He looks tired and stressed, understandably.

"Mr Carlton Moore?" You ask, just to be certain. You failed to ask once, back in the day, and that had backfired massively.

"Yes. How can I help?" He replies. He tries to sound together and obliging but fatigue makes his voice heavy and a little terse.

You smile understandingly, whilst showing him your credentials. "I'm Supervisory Special Agent Jennifer Jareau with the FBI, this is my colleague SSA Derek Morgan. If it's not too much to ask, Sir, we'd like to ask you some questions about your wife. May we come in?"

He opens the door properly and steps aside. "Uh, yes, of course." He says. He leads you through into the lounge but he doesn't sit down. "Can I get you anything to drink? We have tea, coffee, fruit juice, water…" He trails off, seemingly at a loss.

Morgan politely declines his offer but you understand Carlton's need to be doing something, to distract himself from what is going on. Sometimes distracting yourself is all that keeps you in one piece.

"A cup of tea sounds lovely." You reply with a smile. He smiles back at you warmly.

"What kind? I've got breakfast tea, green tea, fruit teas, peppermint tea. There's some of Tania's herbal teas as well but I never did understand why she likes them." He says with a small chuckle. A chuckle that is followed by an expression of guilt. After all, how could he be laughing or smiling whilst his wife was out there all alone, kidnapped by a murderer?

"A peppermint tea would be lovely" You say quickly, before he has time to dwell on it.

He nods and motions towards the couch. "Please, take a seat, I won't be a moment." He walks through the kitchen as you and Morgan sit down.

While you wait, you both scan the room. The walls are covered in family photos. In them you recognise both Mr and Mrs Moore, and their children. There are enough photos from over the years for you to watch their children grow up, picture by picture. There are holiday photos, smiling photos at the beach, on some kind of hiking trip, at Navy Pier in Chicago.

There are photos of Tania with her parents when she was younger, including an old graduation picture. There aren't any images, as far as you can tell, of Carlton's parents. There is an ID badge for Biorad Solutions on the table next to the couch. You remember now that Carlton works for a waste management company based in the city.

You notice a bag of groceries leaning against the table. You must have arrived just after he had returned from a quick run to the store. You pick up the groceries and take them through to the kitchen for him. There are more photos in here, pinned to the refrigerator. You notice one of a lakeside cabin.

Carlton jumps as you set the bag down on the counter, so much so that he spills a little of the tea on his hand. He curses under his breath and runs the burnt skin under the faucet. "I'm sorry." You say, "I didn't mean to startle you." In any other situation you would wonder why the man was so highly strung but right now it's understandable.

"Don't worry about it." He replies easily, "I'm easily startled normally but with this whole mess I'm even worse. Tania hates going to the movies with me because I jump so badly." He smiles and hands you a mug of tea before quickly putting away the two boxes of cereal and pack of yoghurts from the grocery bag. Then he takes his own mug of tea from the counter, from the smell you determine it to be chamomile, and follows you back through the lounge.

You've never been more grateful for a cup of tea. For some reason, the strong smell of peppermint is actually soothing; for the first time today you can feel your nausea beginning abate.

Morgan starts the questioning as you take a sip. It tastes a little bitter but you read online that during the first trimester your taste buds might be a bit out of wack. It doesn't make you feel sick, so you take this as a win.

"Mr Moore, can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Tania?"

"No, everyone loves Tania. I don't understand, I thought the guy who took Tania was the same guy who took those other women?" He replies, confused.

"We believe that to be the case, yes," You reply gently, "but that doesn't rule out the possibility that Tania knew her kidnapper, even if only in passing."

"Did she mention anyone she was having trouble with, maybe someone at work?" Morgan probes.

Carlton shakes his head, he is frustrated and upset. These questions must seem like a waste of time to him. Why are you here questioning him when you should be out there searching for his wife? His reaction is understandable.

"No, not that I know of. Wait, maybe her boss? I think she was having some difficulty at work. She worked a lot of overtime but the company was refusing to pay her? She was very angry about it." He replied.

You're still cradling the mug of your tea in your hands, enjoying the lack of nausea. Peppermint tea may well be your new favourite drink.

"CCTV footage from 3 blocks away shows that Tania was taken just after 9.30 pm last night, was it usual for her to be out at that time?" You ask.

"No but we were out of milk so she went to the grocery store…" He trails off, guilt contorting his features, "Oh God, this is my fault. I should have gone with her. Or gone myself. If I had, she would still be here. She would be okay?" He whispers hoarsely. Tears fall down his face.

You reach out and take his hands. "Don't torture yourself like that. There was no way you could have known. This is not your fault." You say firmly, looking him in the eye. He looks back at you; he doesn't believe you yet, but given time, he might.

The rest of the interview continues in much the same way, coaxing answers from him, although as time passes you feel that damned nausea beginning to build again. You decide that 'morning' sickness is a cruelly inaccurate name. Added to which, you can feel a headache starting to build. Perfect.

Eventually, you thank Mr Moore for his time and take your leave, getting back into the SUV and heading for the police station. The rest of the team are already back at the precinct, drawing up a preliminary profile before heading out to analyse the other crime scenes or interview the families of the other victims.

You are filling the team in on what you learned from Carlton Moore when you begin to feel well and truly ill. You're going to vomit and there's nothing you can do. You finish your sentence, then glance at Morgan, signalling him to take over, then dash for the bathroom.

You barely make it in time to lift the lid of the toilet before your stomach expels its meagre contents. You dry heave a little as the acrid smell invades your nostrils. Breathing heavily, and muttering a few choice curse words under your breath, you hit the flush and turn to the basin to wash your mouth out. Just as you're starting to feel a little fresher, you hear a voice to your left.

"Not much fun is it? This pregnancy lark?" Emily says dryly. You shoot her a look that says 'not helping, Em.'

She smiles apologetically, "Sorry Jayje, it'll get better though." She pauses for a moment. "The team are getting suspicious though, when are you going to tell them?"

You groan. It's not that you don't want to tell the team, but you like that only Em and Derek know- they don't make a fuss or smother you about it. Emily is wonderfully pragmatic, yet supportive, and that's what you love about her. "Well I doubt this little episode has done me any favours in the keeping-it-a-secret department. I suppose now is as good a time as ever." You say reluctantly. You're not exactly overjoyed at the thought of telling them in the middle of a busy police station but at least they won't need to worry about you being ill.

Emily hugs you quickly. "I'm still so happy for you" She whispers, grinning that classic Emily grin.

You both walk back through to the conference room where the team has set themselves up. They all look up at you, concerned, as you enter the room. You look like hell, but instead of talking to them straight away, you make your way to stand next to Morgan and get Garcia up on the screen via video link; you dread to think what kind of cyber hell she would unleash on you if you dared to tell the rest of the team before her.

She starts to tell you that given that Hotch only gave her her orders two minutes ago, calling her now is not going to speed the process along in any way but you interrupt her.

Derek wraps his arm around your shoulder; he knows what you're about to say.

"Guys, I uh… I have an announcement." You say, damn you're so nervous now. Not nervous like you were with Derek this morning but the butterflies are definitely there. You glance at Hotch. His eyes are warm, and just the tiniest bit smug. He knows. You look to Rossi. He looks happy for you, and a little smug. He knows, but he didn't until you started to speak. They look at each other. And then you know. They had a bet on; Hotch had bet that you were pregnant, Rossi had bet that you weren't. You almost laugh in spite of yourself. Of course Hotch bloody knew.

"I'm pregnant" You say. There is dead silence. And then a squeal from the screen that is somewhere between a 'CONGRATULATIONS', 'YAY' and 'OH MY GOD'. You know that Garcia is just dying to hug you, but seeing as she can't, she's doing some sort of happy dance in her lair. You grin at the screen, just as you see Rossi grudgingly hand Hotch a twenty dollar bill.

Reid looks utterly stunned, but gets up and hugs you, saying how happy he is for you and Morgan. Hotch claps Morgan on the shoulder before embracing you and whispering 'congratulations JJ' in your ear. You return the hug and smile widely, though you narrow your eyes at him a little to let him know that you know about his bet. And to let him know that you want a cut of his winnings. He has the grace to look a little sheepish and hands over the twenty dollar bill.

The last to congratulate you is Rossi, who simply hugs you and says 'Congrats kiddo, you two are going to make great parents."

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><p>AN for this happy/fluffy writing, I hope you can all feel the heavy black cloud of angst/tragedy hanging over your head. If you can't, look up, it's there. I'm going to destroy you. As always I love hearing what you think and reviews make me write faster.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N apologies for the wait for what is really a filler chapter, but good things come to those who wait. With a bit of luck updates will be a little quicker now that the exams are out the way :)

thanks to all who have followed/favourited (LichMaster701, Rachel-xox, cheetobreathJareau, , Sincerely Tiffany) and especially those who reviewed, your feedback means a lot to me (kazzyshah, Nene, GottaLoveCM, foxyfeline, LichMaster701, Jareau37, cheetobreathJareau and )

Oh and I forgot to mention, this story actually set towards the end of this season, I just wrote Emily in automatically. Probably because 3 years on I still miss her.

Anyways, enjoy.

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><p>You've never felt this sick in your entire life. How can a bundle of cells the size of a bean growing inside you make you feel this awful? You grimace and massage your temples but the action does nothing to dispel the splitting headache pulsing away behind your eyes. No, not a headache, this is definitely a migraine. Small patches of your vision are a little blurry; it's distracting, as if you needed anything else to distract you.<p>

"JJ, are you feeling okay?" Hotch asks you, concerned. You return your hands to the crime scene photos in front of you and nod. Nodding makes it worse, the headache and the nausea.

You are about to say 'I'm fine' when a larger wave of nausea hits and you find your legs propelling you towards the bathroom again. You've been like this for the last three hours; that warm glow you had spreading through you this morning feels like a lifetime ago. You wretch, but all that comes up is stomach acid and the last of that peppermint tea you made for yourself an hour ago.

You sigh, frustrated, and run your fingers through your hair. After a minute or two you freshen up and return to the conference room. You're just collapsing into your chair again when you hear Hotch say from behind you, "Prentiss, drive JJ to the hotel. Take some files with you, the hotel has Wifi, you can work from there."

You swivel around in your chair to protest. "Hotch, I'm fine, I don't need to go to the hotel." It feels a tad odd saying that, given that you're only an hour away from home, but it's better that the team rent hotel rooms rather than making the hour long commute here and back for the duration of the case.

Hotch just looks at you, bemused. You're not fine. Your face is ashen, your hair is a mess and you feel terrible. You cave almost instantly; a lie down and sleep is sounding pretty good right now, regardless of the circumstances. You open your mouth to protest again out of pride but Emily cuts you off. "Jayje, lay off it. You've been in and out of that bathroom so many times you've worn a path through carpet."

You narrow your eyes at Em, resisting the urge just to double check that you haven't left a trail of threadbare carpet in your wake. She smiles at you, knowing exactly what you're thinking. Damned profilers.

Though you suppose that's more of a friend thing than a profiler thing. Damned friends.

"Fine." You say with a bit of a huff, "But Em is driving straight back here. I don't need a babysitter." It's a decent compromise, the best Hotch is going to extract from you, and he knows it.

He nods in agreement. "Get some rest, try to get some food in you. And keep it down. I'll see you back here tomorrow morning, 8am."

You purse your lips a little as Emily opens the door for you and you head out the building to one of the SUVs. The ride to the hotel does nothing to make you feel better; you're not sure how it's possible to feel worse than you had earlier, but somehow your body manages it. You don't even comment when Emily grabs your go-bag out of the trunk and carries it to your room for you. That's how she knows how truly awful you feel.

It's all you can do to kick off your boots and throw your blazer over the back of a chair before you gingerly slip beneath the sheets, automatically curling yourself into the foetal position. It's fitting really.

"I can stay if you'd like." Emily says quietly. You start to shake your head but the slight movement only exacerbates the throbbing behind your eyes.

"No, they need you at the station." You mumble from within your blanket cocoon.

"Okay, sweetie, but call me if you need anything?"

You can barely muster the energy to give a quiet 'uhmm hmm' in reply. Emily puts the waste bin next to the bed.

"Just in case, eh?" She whispers, as you begin to drift off to sleep. You crack your eyes open just a fraction, then smile to yourself.

"Em?" She's almost made it to the door but stops and turns back.

"Yeah?"

"It's wicker." You murmur.

She looks from you, to the bin, then back to you again, then laughs. She switches it out for the plastic bin from the bathroom. "Get some rest, JJ. You'll feel better once you've had some sleep." She says before leaving.

You fall into a fitful sleep, in a frustrating semi consciousness that leaves you more tired than you started. Whenever you find your mind surfacing you find yourself feeling sick. Your stomach keeps cramping uncomfortably and your migraine is so bad that you wish you had asked Emily to shut the blinds before leaving.

Briefly, it crosses your mind that this may not be morning sickness, that you might actually be sick with a stomach bug or something.

It's getting dark outside. Sighing, you throw back the covers and go to the electric kettle on the table. Relief floods you when you spy, in amongst the assortment of tea bags and coffee sachets, a little pouch labelled 'peppermint'. It takes longer than it should to fill the kettle and make the mug of tea but if it in any tiny way alleviates your nausea then it will be worth it. Besides, in recent hours, you've discovered that dry retching is far more unpleasant than throwing up with something in your stomach.

Less than an hour after finishing your tea, you throw it back up. You crawl back under the covers, resigned and close to tears. You try to get back to sleep but you fail. Miserably. When Emily does finally get back to the hotel room for the night, you're slumped over the toilet bowl feeling like death warmed up.

"Oh my God, Jayje, are you okay?" She exclaims, running over and crouching next to you. She grabs a glass and runs you a glass of water from the basin. You take it, you hand shaking, and try to take a few sips.

You mumble something incoherent, not trusting yourself to talk. You were right not to. Within a second you empty your stomach again. It's painful, the acid tears down your throat. You hear Emily gasp, shocked.

You frown and turn to her, "I don't look that bad." You manage to say, though it's more a hoarse whisper and a couple of words are entirely inaudible.

She's not looking at you, her gaze is on the toilet bowl. "Jayje, I'm going to take you to the hospital." She says, her voice worried but firm.

You follow her gaze and inhale sharply. Diluted by the water and stomach acid, but still painfully visible, is blood. Morning sickness or not, you should not be vomiting up blood. You nod, stunned, giving your consent to go to the hospital. She gets out her phone. "Hey Hotch?" She pauses, "I'm going to take JJ to the hospital, she's really not very well… Yes… No… I just think she should get checked out by a doctor, that's all… Okay… Of course, I'll keep you updated."

She hangs up. "Do you want me to get Morgan?" She asks. You consider saying no, you don't want him to see you like this, but then you decide that you can't look any worse than after Hastings tortured you and he coped fairly well with that.

You give a tiny nod and a grunt of assent.

"Okay, just hang in there." She leaves to find Morgan. You quickly flush the toilet, not wanting to worry him unnecessarily, hoping that Em just tells him you're sick.

She returns with Morgan in tow in under a minute. He crouches next to you and rubs your back soothingly. "Damn girl, you're not looking so good are you?" Had he said that to you any other day, you would have punched him on the arm. Right now, the only response you manage is allowing a couple of tears to trickle down you cheek.

He goes to lift you up.

"I'm sick, I'm not a cripple, Derek." You mumble, "I can walk."

"Okay, no problem." He says, his hands raised in mock surrender. He still helps you to stand though, and you lean on him heavily, allowing him to take most of your weight. You feel weak and dizzy, you head feels like your brain is trying to hammer its way out of your skull.

You sway a little as you take a couple of steps, even with Morgan's arm around you. The room is spinning, faster and faster, you flay your arms out to get your balance but it's no use. The carpeted floor rushes up to meet you and the last thing you hear before the world turns black is two voices shouting your name. The last thing you feel are Derek's arm's lowering you to the ground.

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><p>AN remember that black cloud of angst/tragedy I mentioned? Well now you should be feeling a few stray drops of rain. Just wait until the lightning strikes ;)


	4. Chapter 4

A/N apologies for the delay but thank you to all of you who reviewed in the interlude ( , kazzyshah, XoxMountainGirlxoX, GottaLoveCM, , IniTiniNini, Jareau37, Leslet, Becaboo, Guest and Java5678) without you this would have been written even slower

Anyways, enjoy :)

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><p>You wake to a white ceiling and the scent of antiseptic. It burns your nose a little. You go to rub your eyes groggily but you feel a slight pinch in the crook of your arm. You look down and see an IV embedded in your skin.<p>

"Hey, beautiful." You hear beside you. You look around to see Derek sat next to the bed.

"What happened?" You ask, wincing a little as the words make your throat hurt. As you begin to wake up fully you start to remember. You remember collapsing. Your heart stops. "Is the baby okay?" You ask, terrified, placing your hands over your abdomen protectively.

Morgan takes your hand. "The baby's fine, JJ. You were just dehydrated and exhausted, that's why you fainted." He says soothingly. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze. "You sure as hell gave me a scare though." He grins.

You let out a breath you hadn't even realised you were holding as relief washes over you. "What time is it?"

He checks his watch, "Half seven."

You sit up in the bed, "We need to get going, we're meeting at the precinct in half an hour."

"Yes, we are, but you are staying right here" You start to protest but he cuts you off, "I know, I know, 'You're fine' but it's not just you that you've got to take care of anymore." He strokes his hand over your stomach.

You glare at him; he's manipulating you, you both know it, but he is also right. It is at this moment, as you are levelling your eyes at Morgan with your best death stare, that the doctor walks in to your room.

"Good morning, Miss Jareau." He says brightly, "I'm Dr Nunez, glad to see you're feeling better this morning."

You consider asking him how he knows you're feeling better but you suppose the fact that you're conscious is a good indication. And you haven't thrown up. Sure, the nausea is there, lurking in the background, as is your headache, but neither are nearly so severe as yesterday. The doctor is reading through your chart.

"Derek here mentioned that you had vomited up some blood last night, is that correct?" He asked.

You nod. You still remember the look of alarm on Emily's face.

"Okay well I don't think it's anything to worry about; sometimes prolonged vomiting can cause minor tears in the lining of your oesophagus, hence the blood. That said, given your pregnancy, I would like to keep you here for a further 24 to 48 hours for observation, just to make sure there isn't anything more serious going on." He smiles reassuringly.

You groan inwardly; trapped in a hospital for 24 to 48 hours? 'Kill me now' you think to yourself wearily.

"I realise this isn't ideal, but I would prefer to be overly cautious than risk you or your baby harm."

You nod again- he, like Morgan, is right. "Thank you, doctor. When will you be able to take out the IV?" You ask, motioning towards the needle in the crook of your elbow.

"At the moment we're only giving you fluids to keep you hydrated and an anti-emetic to keep the nausea at bay." He glances down at the chart in his hands, "You're stats are looking good so I expect we'll take the IV out around midday, just to be sure. After that we'll administer the anti-emetic orally. With any luck you'll be able to keep your breakfast down."

Listening to the doctor, Morgan smiles at you mischievously, knowing full well that you're dreading the thought of forcing down hospital food. You glare at him again.

"Great, thank you, doctor." You say with a false smile, your media smile. The doctor leaves. Morgan kisses your forehead and goes to do the same.

"I've got to get to the precinct, but Garcia's going to keep you company, she can work from here." He says. He puts his head around the door quickly, "Hey, Babygirl, you're up!" He calls down the corridor.

He grins again, then, as the bright, bubbly form of Garcia bustles through the doorway, he's gone.

You smile widely at Garcia, grateful the company. You know that there are far worse people to be trapped in a hospital with.

"Wow, Gumdrop, when my chocolate thunder said you were looking better today I'd hoped for a little more colour in those cheeks." She says cheerfully, though you can tell she's concerned.

"That's just what every girl wants to hear in the morning." You reply, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

She grins a little sheepishly, "Sorry, I just meant that I didn't think that you'd still look like an extra from the Walking Dead, that's all…"

"And the compliments are just flying in today." You laugh.

Unfortunately, the laughter is not to last. Over the next hour you feel your nausea building and your headache creeping forward into your skull until eventually the tap of Garcia's keyboard sets your teeth on edge.

You have a nasty feeling that you know what's coming. "Pen?" You say quietly. It still hurts when you speak. "Do you have a spare hair-tie somewhere?"

"Of course, sugar plum, just give me a second." She rummages around in her bag for a moment, before emerging triumphant with a purple scrunchie and handing it to you. You tie your hair back as quickly as you can manage but you feel so tired; it's like your limbs are made of lead. Just that simple movement has you breathing heavier than you should.

Not long after that your suspicions are confirmed. The nightmare of yesterday is not over. "Pen, pass me the trashcan." It's not a request, it's an order. Penelope looks around in alarm: it's a hospital room, there aren't any trashcans. Thankfully she spots a white sick-bag just out of your reach next to the bed and passes it to you.

You're very glad you had the sense to tie your hair back as you heave violently into the bag. Garcia quickly gets up and runs to the door, shouting for a doctor or nurse. Then she returns to you and rubs your back soothingly whilst holding back the few strands of hair you managed to miss earlier.

When you finish, one of the nurses takes the sick-bag. Her face is impassive but you could swear you see worry flicker in her eyes. You're worried yourself; there was a fair amount of blood in what you've just thrown up, surely your throat isn't torn up that badly?

The doctor decides to increase your anti-emetic dosage and take a blood sample, just to be safe so he says, though again, you swear you can hear worry in his voice. You're probably imagining things. You hope you're imagining things.

The rest of the day crawls by at a snail's pace, the same way you'd imagine a hiker with a broken leg drags himself across the desert. It is a repetitive, agonising day: you feel so sick you can't move. Anything other than lying perfectly still brings waves of nausea crashing down on you like tsunami, only to recede to become a gentle tide that just keeps rising, slowly, but surely.

You drift in and out of consciousness, waking up intermittently as the pounding behind your eyes forces sleep away. You wonder whether that hiker is kicking the inside of your skull, or perhaps he has amputated his leg and is now using it as a hammer to smash a hole through the gap between your eyes.

It's an odd thought, but somehow you think he is succeeding.

Garcia is working an in-depth background on all the victims, desperately searching for a link, or something they had in common that the unsub had targeted. She appears to be frustrated; when Hotch phones to check up on her she's got very little. The first victim had two unpaid parking tickets but that's about it.

Around 5pm Garcia suddenly squints at her laptop intently. You're vaguely aware of what's going on but are trying to return to that fitful sleep that is so elusive. Your stomach has been cramping for the last couple of hours. You're also beginning to feel the sort of cramps you get at the start of your period. It does nothing to ease your nerves; if it continues then you'll definitely ask your doctor about it. You've heard that mild 'period pains' are common in pregnancies and nothing to worry about but given your general situation, you don't want to leave anything to chance.

You blink rapidly as Garcia looks at you, shock evident on her face. "What is it?" You croak, wincing.

She says a single word. "Buford." Her voice is little more than a whisper.

You frown in confusion; what is she talking about? What does Buford have to do with this case? "Start from the beginning, Pen." You say hoarsely.

"I can't believe I didn't see it sooner." Her voice is hollow. You can see that her brain is running at a million miles an hour, running over the information over and over as if to double check. You wait patiently, although that patience is running dangerously thin. It's not Garcia's fault, of course, but prolonged nausea and pain will do that to a girl.

"Garcia?" You ask, firmly this time.

She shakes her head, clearing it and looks at you again. "I was doing some digging on the Moores. Prior to 2006, there is no record of Carlton and Tania Moore. Nada, rien. They just appear, out of nowhere, in Washington. So I dug a little deeper. Their daughters, Danielle and Anna are both married. I checked the marriage certificates. Their maiden name was Buford."

Your eyes widen and a cold feeling creeps into your heart. You have no idea how Morgan will react to this news. When Buford had finally died in prison almost two years ago, Morgan had closed himself of, trying to deal with his conflicted emotions. It was not unexpected, 3 months before, they had received news that Buford had been shanked in the prison yard. He had since developed kidney failure and well, prison hospitals aren't exactly known for a high quality of death. It had been a long, drawn out death.

Derek had considered visiting him although ultimately decided against it.

But this news was not expected, he had no way to prepare for it.

"Is there any way this could be a mistake, a different Buford?" You ask. It's unlikely, you know; Buford isn't exactly the most common surname but you have to ask.

Garcia shakes her head. She turns the screen around so that you can see. On it is a scan of a birth certificate. "No, this is no mistake. Carlton Moore is Edward Buford, the son of Carl Buford."

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><p>AN *gasps* little plot twist for you. Now we've getting to the part where the sh*t hits the fan so leave a review and stay tuned :D

Oh and my other fic, To Live Is To Choose got nominated for a couple of Profiler's Choice Awards (yes I know some of you already know this but I'm still crazy excited) so if you get the time and like the fic then please vote for it?

Fingers crossed I'll be a little quicker with my next update...


	5. Chapter 5

A/N sorry for the delay in getting this out, i'm afraid my muse for this story kinda died so i've been left with severe writer's block. Anyways thank you to kazzyshah, jjcrimminds, GottaLoveCM, cheetobreathJareau, IniTiniNini, Leslet, Koala, Jareau37, Jenny, dfwan for your reviews, it would have taken much longer to get this chapter out elsewise. Switching between POVs for this chapter, bringing in some Morgan.

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><p>Morgan's POV<p>

You look up as Hotch calls your name. He has just finished on the phone with Garcia. "Morgan, I need to speak with you in private." Your stomach drops. Is JJ okay? What's happened? Hotch clearly understands what your eyes must be giving away. "JJ is fine, she's still nauseas but she'd doing okay." You sag a little in relief; with little progress in the case, you can't help but listen to the voice in the back of your mind who is whispering worries about JJ.

You follow Hotch out into the corridor, now curious as to what he wants to talk to you about. His face is grim and closed, as if behind that stoic front he is running over a thousand possibilities, trying to determine their impact.

"Morgan, I felt you deserved to know first." He pauses for a moment. You know it's bad, but if it's not JJ, then what? "Garcia did some digging on Carlton Moore. Carlton Moore is not his real name." He stopped again, as if preparing to deal a terrible blow. "His real name is Edward Buford."

Buford. The name hits you with the force of a freighter. Your heart is beating through your chest and your mouth is suddenly dry as a bone. Your hands clench into fists without you even commanding them to do it. You force yourself to take a deep breath. No, you tell yourself, you're okay, Carl Buford is dead. You've dealt with it, you've moved on. His death was that final piece of closure you needed.

"He is Carl Buford's son." Hotch is eyeing you with concern, measuring your reaction. You nod, you had guessed that Edward's connection with Buford was a close one; why else would Hotch have taken you aside? Buford. The word plays over and over in your head like _he_ is suddenly there with you.

"I understand if you need to take a moment to process this but with JJ out of action, I need your focus on this case." Hotch continues.

You shake him out of your head and make eye contact with Hotch. You're okay. It's a shock, but you're okay. "No, I'm okay." You say firmly, holding his gaze. You think he believes you. You're glad; if he believes you, you might begin to believe it yourself. "Do you think he is our unsub?" You ask.

"At the moment, he is the best lead we've got. However, it is possible that he is genuinely a man whose wife has been kidnapped, who changed his name to distance himself from the legacy of his father. It would be one hell of a coincidence, but it remains a possibility. Garcia is putting in for a search warrant as we speak but I'll send Prentiss and Reid to accompany Mr Buford to the station for interrogation."

"I want to go with them, or at least help with the search." You say, calmly and carefully so that Hotch knows you're in control but that this isn't something you're willing to negotiate on. He gives you a long look, his eyes assessing you. After several seconds he nods his head slowly.

"Okay, go with them, but you take your lead from Prentiss. If for whatever reason you find yourself struggling, I want you to remove yourself from the situation and head back here. Do I make myself understood?" His eyes are stern.

It's your turn to nod.

"Okay then, let's catch the rest of the team up."

You both walk back through into the conference, with you schooling your expression to hide the turmoil going on in your head.

It doesn't take long for Hotch to bring the team up to speed; you both loathe and appreciate the looks of concern and sympathy that are cast in your direction. Thankfully you, Reid and Prentiss are all on your way to Buford's house fairly quickly so you don't have to suffer them for long.

You're grateful to Reid and Emily though; they leave the radio on in the SUV and don't discuss the implications of this newfound information. Neither do they ask you if you're okay or if you want to talk about it. They know that you just had a bomb dropped on you. They know that you just need a little time to work through it.

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><p>JJ's POV<p>

You watch Garcia as she hangs up the phone. "How is he?" You ask. You should be with him right now, despite the front he puts up when he's cornered, you know he needs your support.

"I phoned Hotch. Derek doesn't deserve to hear something like that over the phone." Penelope replies. She's also worried about Morgan, you can hear it in her voice. You reach out and give her hand a gentle squeeze. She gives you a small smile. "You'd better not be contagious."

You laugh lightly, even though it makes your head hurt. You rest your head back on the pillows. "God, this is so messed up." You sigh, carding your hand through your hair and straightening your pony tail.

Garcia nods in agreement. "Ain't that the truth?" She says, her eyes focused on her laptop screen, presumably digging through Edward Buford's background.

You barely hear her. Instead you're staring at your hand, a thrill of fear rushing through you. "Garcia?"

"Mm hmm?" She replies without looking up.

"I think I need the doctor back here."

In your hand is a small clump of hair.

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><p>Morgan's POV<p>

Nothing seems out of the ordinary as you approach the house once again, except for that inevitable ominous feeling you have in the pit of your stomach that wasn't there the first time you went to see Edward Buford. However, as you reach the front step, you can see that the door is slightly ajar. You signal Prentiss and she nods- she has seen it too. All three of you remove your weapons from their holsters and step to the side of the doorframe.

The door creaks a little as Prentiss pushes it open. You pause but hear no movement within the house. You move through the house quickly, clearing rooms methodically and quietly. After a minute or two you regroup.

"No sign of him." Prentiss says, holstering her glock and taking her phone from her pocket. "But it looks like someone packed in a hurry upstairs. I'll get some CSU techs here."

"Reid, call Hotch, let him know we need an APB out on Buford." You say quickly; you know time is of the essence here. There is no longer any doubt in your mind that Buford is the unsub you've been hunting.

You walk through to the living room checking for anything you may have missed during your initial sweep of the house. Nothing seems to have changed since yesterday; JJ's mug is even still on the coffee table where she left it. However, as you make your way through to the kitchen something catches your eye.

There are small pieces of broken glass on the floor. "Reid, Prentiss!" You call out, unsure of what you've found. The glass appears to be the remains of a broken vial; part of it is still intact. There is a silvery-gold looking metal inside the base of the vial. You snap a pair of gloves on and crouch to pick it up just as Reid and Emily enter the room.

You turn to show the strange metal to them and Emily examines it with interest. Reid, however, has made his way over the opposite counter and is looking at what appears to be a plastic spice container. You watch with amazement as the heat of your fingers begins to melt the metal; a small droplet droops over onto the fingertip of your glove.

"Morgan put that down!" Reid shouts at you with such urgency that you almost drop it. You hastily place it down on the counter, shooting him a look of alarm as you do so. Your look goes unnoticed. Reid is staring at the metal with a strange combination and horror and calculation. His brain is running at a million miles an hour.

Now he looks at you and Emily, "We need to get out of here, now" He says, ushering both of you towards the door, "Phone Hotch, tell him we need to a hazmat team here immediately."

What the hell is going on? You look to Prentiss and see the exact same question running behind her eyes as all three of you all but run for the door. Reid slams the door behind you as you leave the house.

"What is it Reid?" You ask him. He doesn't answer you, he is too busy taking his phone from his pocket and dialling franticly. "Reid?!" You ask, confusion causing your voice to rise a little. Emily is already on the phone to Hotch, relaying his message.

"Did JJ touch anything or drink anything when you two were here yesterday?" He demanded, the urgency in his voice only outweighed by fear.

Fear runs through your stomach like lightning. The tea.

"Yes," You stutter, "tea, she drank some tea. Peppermint."

Reid's eyes widen in panic as you answer. "Garcia?!" His call has finally been connected, "Get me JJ's doctor, now!"

Your heart is beating through your ribcage. Panicked butterflies are jammed into your stomach, pumping adrenaline through your veins.

"Hello, Dr Nunez, this is Doctor Spencer Reid with the FBI. You need to start Agent Jareau on a treatment of Prussian Blue immediately." He is breathless as he says the words.

Your stomach drops. Prussian Blue. You've heard of that. Isn't it a treatment for… Oh Jesus Christ.

"Yes Doctor, run all the necessary tests but start the treatment NOW. I believe Agent Jareau has ingested a dose of Caesium 137." He snaps the phone shut. "Did you get any of the caesium on you?" He asks quickly.

You shake your head dumbly, shock rendering you speechless. Then you think again and hold up your gloved hand; there is the tiniest trace of caesium on one of the fingertips. "As soon as the hazmat team gets here, you need to get yourself checked out and then we need to head to the hospital, understand?" He tells you.

Emily's phone call to Hotch was quick; she could only tell him what Reid had told her. Now she turned to Reid demanding answers. "What the hell is going on?"

"The substance in there, it was caesium. Between the leadlined container on the counter and JJ's symptoms, there could only be one explanation." Reid said, his words blurring into one long line of syllables.

"What do you mean, her symptoms? She's just got bad morning sickness." Emily replies, though her voice has a pleading edge to it.

Reid shook his head, fear and worry still dominating his features. "The severe nausea, vomiting. Blood in the vomit. The headaches. All of these are symptoms of acute radiation syndrome."

Radiation. You feel like you're a dingy that just got hit by a container ship. You grasp Reid by the shoulders and look at him with desperate eyes. "But she's going to be okay, right?" He just stares back at you, his mouth opening and closing like a guppy. "Reid!" You're shouting now, your voice is hoarse with emotion. "Tell me she's going to be okay! Please!"

He has tears in his eyes. They scare you more than any fact or statistic ever could.

"I can't." He whispers. "I don't know."

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><p>AN I'll try to update in a more timely fashion next time, but in the meantime leave a review and let me know what you think :D


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